Chapter 6
Walking Wounded
...I was innocent once...In the magical Kingdom of Zeal...But I was a different person then. City of Dreams...Idiotic. More like the City of Nightmares. Why do I struggle to preserve that which does not earn such dedication? Ah, my dear Schala, that which I endure for you. Now comes the deadly decision. A day, a mere day. My Day of Lavos.
The Black Winds.
Ever present they'd been, since first breath and, he suspected, until the last. How ironic, and appropriate, should they touch his wounded soul upon this day. The touch of death, the cry of the dying...Yes, always those cursed Black Winds.
Those winds knifed Magus, rendering his austere lavender Cloak of Concealment useless against the wintry onslaught. Today, the advent of her funeral, and that many others. Oh, the former prince couldn't care less about the loss of few insignificant Earthbound. Nor could he really be bothered with the death of even his kin, the Enlightened. Sometimes, the dark wizard wondered even if his quest had any purpose–why save the world when there remain so few that deserve to live upon it?
Continuing his trek across the chill plains to North Cape, the shadow sorcerer swept that thought away immediately. Such thoughts surely could not be productive. Now more than ever he must stay steadfast to his mission. Jarl seemed completely incorrigible now. At the lavish ceremony, full of Terran flowers and ivory Zealian birds, he'd broke down and with an air of impending doom, had fled.
That made for quite a row. Magus smirked grimly. Dalton had been positively distressed at the display while his mother had appeared less than amused. Schala, as was her nature, looked upon with sympathy. Jarl's words 'Fire in the Skies. Darkness shall Arise' had ripped any expression from his own face, however. Now he cursed fervently.
Fate had screwed him. Again.
All of his delicately-crafted plans–ruins. Or soon to be. With Alura's untimely death, her brother seemed more determined than ever to pursue his current course of action. It symbolized the irredeemable loss that was to become the late Kingdom of Zeal. Oh, why did this have to happen? So close, so near the goal...
Lost and irreplaceable. He longed to scream until Lavos himself joined in a discordant symphony of hate. Until they all went mad. But no, he could not. To scream was to permit a trickle of emotion past his barrier. What left there was hinged on his composure. Fate didn't deal him a particularly pleasing hand. So what of it? It never had. Never would.
Pulling his cloak to ward off the preliminary waves of cold, Magus glimpsed up North Cape. The cruel sun reflected off the ice and snow, momentarily blinding but providing no heat nor light. It had taken some pains and time but the former leader of the Mystics located his ally/adversary, narrowing his search to the Terran Continent. Though he loathed interacting with their kind, Magus resorting to asking the Earthbound for their assistance. For his rank alone, the village elder had related that Jarl haunted North Cape.
And so he was, a tall dark figure bent in thought.
From his view, Jarl seemed deep in concentration. Magus frowned, one elbow supporting another as a single finger came up to his chin. Was Jarl contemplating a New Zeal? He must do something about that. Swiftly as fallen snow, the dark wizard crossed over the crystalline shores, the gentle rumbles of the ocean echoing in his wake. Shadows, wove by the outcrop, hued the cape as wandering souls. High above, the sky expanded in a soft afternoon blue, glittering in the stillness of the glass waters. He climbed the cliff with a levitation spell, not warning Jarl of his arrival. A magnificent view, though unlikely enough the reason for the other prophet's presence.
That prophet remained erect, with little indication of the half-rage, half-grief, he'd exhibited at Alura's ceremony. An illusion, Magus knew. Jarl was an expert at the art of manipulating thoughts and feelings, as concealing as the cloak the blue-haired wizard now don. If the two had been friends, Magus might have inquired if he could acquire that ability. But friends they were not.
More like bitterly divided brothers who tip both scales of deceit and trust.
Sidestepping a stone in his path, Magus stood parallel to the prophet and laid a hand upon his shoulder. Softly he asked, "Will you be okay?" Comfort was hardly the dark wizard's domain–killing was more fun to learn, anyway–but nothing else would do.
Jarl's eyes flickered. "A subjective and entirely immeasurable term, but, yes, I'll be fine."
Magus inhaled and dropped his hand. "What's to happen now?"
"Nothing. Nothing at all...We wait."
"For what?" Magus' stomach tightened–a sure sign he was unlikely to enjoy this.
"Lavos' appearance, but of course."
But of course. Lavos. The dark wizard detested that name. Glen viewed his name as curse, a word of ill fortune and imminent evil. Magus saw Lavos as much the same. For as long as a child of eight could remember that dark force haunted him. It was as if, should Lavos fall, everything would be right in the world again. He had to believe in that. If not, the pillar of his strength–his hate of the beast and the 'knowledge' that its death would bring happiness–would collapse. And with it, him.
His breath hitched as Magus recalled that a single day, as a sole star in a patch of midnight, remained before the creature's summoning. Soon, face to face. The initial encounter had ended disastrously–for him. A young boy, swept away in a storm, his little world, shattered. The second had gone little better. A mere week ago, the necromancer stood upon the brink of its destruction when a motley crew crashed his abode.
Melchoir was fond of saying 'the third's the charm', thought Magus with a sardonic smile. May it be so. Scratching his chin, the dark wizard began, "Jarl...I think you are going about this the wrong way."
"Oh?" The black-haired man looked intrigued. "Explain."
Magus gritted his teeth. Dislike instantly flowed within and no amount of sympathy could disillusion it. But with necessity came desperation. And with desperation came..."The death of your sister should mean change is needed. Leaving Zeal to be destroyed is not the answer. Death is not rebirth. It is not the beginning. It is the end. We cannot let Zeal be lost. We must save it–then reform it."
Jarl glanced over the ocean waves. They rippled with the slight breeze offering a most surreal feeling. His eyes glittered as he whispered, changing the subject, as was his custom. "You're afraid..." He glanced up quickly to snare Magus' gaze. "Aren't you?"
Afraid? Hardly that. Still, the dark wizard stiffened. Two fire-and-violet eyes flashed. Perhaps he was, perhaps not. Either way, the former prince attempted heartily to mask any further emotion. A wonderful thing, to be able to fold his feelings into neat little piles and shove them away into the drawers of the mind.
Magus cut with a hand. "Ridiculous. I am merely analyzing all the available options. Waiting hardly seems productive."
Jarl continued on as if uninterrupted. "Your fear will be the death of her. Because of ignorance, you choose to fight blindly, heedless of the havoc you will render. You will lose, not only your life, but her's."
No need to spell out who 'her' referred to. Magus knew well enough. Originally the dark wizard had intended to steer the other prophet into his desired path–but the destination was long gone and the location itself seemed lost. Instead of Jarl relenting and following him to salvage the current Zeal, the necromancer found himself more and more considering altering his mission to align with Jarl's. Magus caught himself and set about to halt it. "Wait? You think we should wait until the Queen summons Lavos and becomes indestructible? What if that happens, what if she becomes too powerful while we sit and 'wait'?"
This time Jarl's hand lay upon his shoulder. "Patience, Magus. Isn't she worth that much to you?"
Irritably, the former prince slapped the arm away. "And so, if we sit like good little boys, Schala will be fine?" Acidic venom leaked into his words, as intended, but so did thinly-veiled desperation. His barrier, for all the times it hid his pain and frustration, seemed inadequate against the torrent of apprehension he now felt. Like the cloak, it concealed him but did not fully shield from suffering on many fronts. His love of his sister exceeded the boundaries of the gate.
And, in some ways in which Magus could not explain, his mission meant more than even the beloved Schala...Where had that thought come from?
Jarl did not immediately retort. Instead he sat on the ledge of North Cape, admiring the view. His eyes followed the lines in the great ocean, traced the reflected sun in the waves and in the crisp sky. His lips hinted with a smile. "She would have loved to see this..."
"Alura?"
"Yes...I...I miss her..."
The alteration in mind-set struck Magus as odd. Anything even remotely smacking of out-of-the-norm would be persecuted by his meticulous suspicion. Yet, Jarl's change in subject made no sense to the dark wizard. Maybe I am paranoid. Maybe he just misses her...
When Jarl gestured for Magus to sit beside him, the former prince declined. As the silence stretched, Magus' mind wandered, as it often did. He had a vivid imagination, the likes of which he could torture himself with. If he only did this...hadn't done that...
"If Schala dies, too, would you miss her?"
Magus frowned. He hated any subject pertaining to his feelings. Speaking of feelings often evoked them and the necromancer knew the topic of his sister, combined with emotions, was a recipe for his manipulation. A saying, told by one of the Gurus, rang as a pin drop in a silent chamber: 'It's the nature of the beast to chase futile, and often dangerous, dreams. We are as the cat that loves fish yet hate the feel of water. Unlike the cat, however, we can not swim. We yearn and pine until we find ourselves within the dark waters and pulled undercurrent. Despite the knowledge of the consequences, we fall to our own dark desires and foolishness.'
Not a particularly pleasant thought, but then he wasn't a particularly pleasant person.
Eyes squinted, the sorcerer picked among the pieces of conversation and selected the most serviceable to disillusion Jarl from using him. "While that is strictly my business, quite honestly I would not."
Jarl smiled with all the sweetness of salt. Unconvinced. His hands extended behind his back to support himself. Winds murmured, as a child tugging an adult's coat–vexing but soon forgotten. It played with the black strands of Jarl's hair as it did with Magus' own. That puzzled the dark wizard. Rare it is that the Winds should bother one not of Zeal's royal lineage. He dismissed it for the moment.
Coughing to make a point, the other prophet checked to ensure he had an audience. Then Jarl set his voice to a neutral as he spoke. "Shattered. Irreclaimable. The lost Prince of Zeal shall encounter his ultimate nemesis. All shall fall to the Red Star's fire. Unveiled, the prince declares his challenge. 'I survived the darkness to defeat you!' his cry of decades-long hatred, sounding in the silence of his own trial, thwarted. The one in violet shall whisk him away, twice the heartbroken child..."
"More 'prophecies', prophet?" Magus sneered.
Jarl shrugged his shoulders, noncommittal. "The words of Zephyrain himself. He never lies, nor is he ever inaccurate. Page two hundred and forty-three of Volume ninety-eight, if I remember correctly."
And it would be just my luck that some words said by a man dead hundreds of years shall hold the key to my future and that of all of Zeal's. After tugging on his gloves, one size too large, the necromancer muttered, "I'm suppose to trust everything–everything!–on a deadman's words?"
"Indeed this must seem terribly confusing for you. But can you afford to let pride risk it all?"
That stopped Magus cold. Of course, he couldn't afford to let the lust of the destruction of Lavos to override his common sense. So much depended on his perfect performance. It drained him, the constant delicate balance of deception and being immersed in such a hostile environment. Jarl knew of his most drastic secrets. He would have to observe the other prophet carefully. It was not unheard of oracles manipulating one another for some vile designs.
You can walk on broken glass but you'd better watch your step, lest the edges bleed you.
In a graceful sweep, Jarl sprung to his feet. His silver eyes narrowed on Magus for the kill. "You simply cannot take the chance, Magus. Do so and she is lost. I should have done something more to ensure my sister's safety." He shook his head in regret. "But I didn't and now we both pay the price. As one brother to another–don't fail her."
In his mind's eye, the image of Alura materialized. The ravaged face and ruined body. The burnt locks of once sun-blonde hair. The stench of smoldering flesh and the coppery tang of blood. Then the vision amended. Now it was Schala upon the cold stones. Her body destroyed. Her hair fell as ashes. The blood, her blood.
I...I could never survive that loss. If twenty years of separation couldn't rend my sanity surely her death would. At least for those long hard nights I could pretend she'd wake me up in the morning. Now...if she perished...
So would he.
I have no choice. I know the dreaded truth. I must concede to Jarl. To ignore the prophecies could inspire disaster. Magus struggled with his doubt and fears as Jarl continued to admire the lovely view. His face scrunched and his fists clenched and unclenched. I will tell him–I'll listen. Just tell me how she can be saved. Without visibly reaction, Magus crushed that black thought. Ah, his adversary knew the tender parts of his soul. He would have to tread carefully.
Magus lifted two fingers to his aching temples. He had to think. Read the books, find the relating prophecies and make an educated decision then. The dark wizard's emotions were too raw, his thoughts too erratic to trust his judgment now. "I'll be going. I have many projects to complete before the activation of the Mammon Machine in the Ocean Palace tomorrow." Jarl appeared on the fringe of prompting when Magus cut him off. "I will think about what you have said. Within a few hours I will update you on my decision."
That said, the sorcerer of shadow descended the cliff. As liquid sky, his beautiful hair fluttered from out of his hood. His violet cloak swirled as the necromancer uttered a spidery word and instantly Float gently set him down to the soft white sand.
The final decision. Destiny better not screw him now.
High above his hunched head, the painting of great Zephyrain shimmered with gold candlelight. Night had fallen and Magus' rest came long in waiting. Still, the 'oracle' refused to concede to slumber. For twenty long years he waited for this moment. Something as minor as sleep would hardly even factor into the equation.
Tall stacks of primers lined the walls of the secret basement in the Library of Valor, several of which toppled over. Already three smothered candle stubs lay within the wastebasket. In an immaculate set of bookshelves, it appeared as missing teeth with all the volumes containing prophecy and time fragmentation now strewn across the table and the entire room.
Two gloved hands trembled as Magus scanned a book written by Zephyrain himself. Here, his future already written. Of course, the former prince himself could have easily detailed the history having lived it first-hand but Magus hoped that there remained another destiny for the ill-fated kingdom. 12000 B. C.. In his hands he held the fate of his people. The beginning of the Ice Age and the end of the Age of Dreams. In it, the augury of the Day of Lavos. His day of Lavos at any rate. The day Janus perished and Magus had been born.
Breathing thinly, he flipped open the cover and flicked through the pages. Day five before Lavos appears. Day four. Day three. Day two...Day one....
That breath hitched.
"Shattered. Irreclaimable. The lost Prince of Zeal shall encounter his ultimate nemesis. All shall fall to the Red Star's fire. Unveiled, the prince declares his challenge. 'I survived the darkness to defeat you!' his cry of decades-long hatred, sounding in the silence of his own trial, thwarted. The one in violet shall whisk him away, twice the heartbroken child..."
His fist slammed into the table with enough force to shatter one of the legs. It drove everything upon it onto the ground in an immediate diagonal, downward turn. Damn it all to the Void...So Jarl was telling the truth...He sighed. For once in his life, the illustrious Magus would have to follow, not lead. He hated that. This would be as pleasurable as digesting nails...
Thrusting aside all the frustration the former prince came to his feet, facial features aligning into a deadly resolve. The sorcerer contemplated the journey back to his quarters at the Zeal Palace and finally decided to magically appear within his room. He was ever wary of being exposed. Tomorrow. Tomorrow he could let the bastard Jarl gloat. Magus could delay the other prophet's victory at least until dawn.
A yawn and the words of power fell from his lips. A cone of light encircled the wizard and within moments he stood within his cluttered chambers. He tossed the latest victim of reading onto the untidy nightstand. Tired, the sorcerer stumbled over to his bed. Briefly he thought to remove the cloak. It was not mere clothing after all. It was a magical item.
No. Sleep now. If I wrinkle it I'll just burn anyone who dares to comment.
Exhaustion came over him as an ocean wave. Sleep came–but not rest.
"Magus...Oh, Magus..."
Two eyelids fluttered open. Light spilled in from the crevices of his eyes. That was most odd. He'd extinguished all forms of light and his room had no window. Shaking his head to clear the milk-white substance that clouded sight, Magus straightened in bed.
And before him stood Alura.
His lips twitched to form 'what?' but no sound emerged. Magus reacted, or tried anyway. Even the menial effort of looking about, depleted his strength on a massive scale far more than it should. His head drooped and his hair, as a cerulean curtain, cascaded down a shoulder. "Alura?...You're dead...."
She smiled coyly. "My name is Alura."
"How....?" His eyebrows rose–as did his guard.
Without answering, the blonde woman climbed onto the bed. He stiffened, wondering just exactly what Alura had in mind. As cold as glacial water, her hands upon him. One settled on his upraised knee while the other freely roamed his chest.
"Ah, Magus...I want to...talk to you...."
Talk? Hardly, that. More like some bizarre form of seduction. Of course, Magus would have none of that. "Talk? Explain yourself."
The woman, donned in the arresting blue dress he'd last seen her in, leaned forward so close he could feel...Nothing? No heat. No fragrance. This bewildered the prophet who expertly schooled his expression into non-expression. None of this made sense. Her words evoked a feeling of repetition. Often enough the dark wizard knew that sensation–he was reliving his past, after all–but this seemed beyond even that out-of-the-norm normality.
"Have you ever made love before?"
As if the current circumstance itself hadn't confused Magus sufficiently. This statement had no relevance to anything. Why would she ask that again? At first, the necromancer supplied no response and Alura seemed to need none to proceed. With delicate fingers, the young woman slid his cloak off two shoulders. It fell soundlessly to the bed.
This was insane. Alura was dead. He could feel nothing, smell nothing, hear nothing...
I am dreaming?
As one hand dipped into his collar and sought entrance to his shirt, Magus snatched up that hand. "Enough! What is the meaning of this!?"
The index finger of her other hand lifted to gesture at a shadow within the room. As an invisible chain, the dark prince's red-lavender eyes followed to find his dearest sister Schala genuflected. Radiant blue hair breathed in the non-existent wind. Her eyes shut to all of Zeal, she appeared to be praying to higher powers. Like a deflated balloon, Magus' heart constricted to witness her so alive, so unburdened.
That's how he liked to remember her.
But such was never to be. A silhouetted figure, carrying his scythe, advanced on the unsuspecting young woman. Danger! Fear fueled his heart to thrash and yet the sorcerer himself could do nothing, constrained by means beyond his comprehension. The former prince, helpless to save his precious princess as he'd been those many years ago.
The scythe made no sound as it cleanly sliced Schala in half. His sister simply slumped over to her side without a word. Her mysterious killer said nothing. Neither did Alura.
Even Magus' own scream could not be heard.
Horrified, Magus stared, transfixed with a stain of crimson coming over his vision. Still, the unseen hand paralyzed him. Desperate, he looked to Alura, demanding an answer. She seemed not forthcoming. Alura departed from the bed and strolled over to the slain Schala. "I think there's something wrong with Jarl."
To that, the dark wizard glanced back over to the assassin. He was wearing Magus' own Cloak of Concealment! Two hands of the killer lifted up to lower the hood–!
Jarl...
Dear Reaper, let this be a horrible nightmare!
Then Magus regained composure. Of course this was a dream. Dead people don't start walking around. He chuckled darkly...but could this be some grim forewarning of Schala's fate? Jarl had thus far given him no indication of being a cold-blooded murder. That imagination working overtime again, perhaps?
As if all the energy deserted his limbs, the former Zealian still could not perform even the simplest of tasks. His sagging eyelids threatened to collapse altogether despite the dire nature of the situation. "What...what are...you...telling...me?"
Her gaze returned to him. Those soulless eyes chilled his soul. "I'm afraid."
Yet he was not afraid. A message, then.
"Describe to me what you are feeling."
Magus blinked–both from exhaustion and confusion. "What?"
" You can't look me in the eye and claim to be lifeless!"
I am dreaming!
"Someday you will feel, prophet."
At the realization that, indeed, he ventured the plains of the sleepers, wakefulness forced itself upon the weary sorcerer. Shaking his head, Magus fought the drowning light but its progression could not be denied. As a person denies death, so too, did he fail. Critical he knew, absolutely critical that he remain in this dream world. Learn more. Much more.
Alura smiled at his frustration. "I guess I really must be going."
No. Wait. Schala...tell me what becomes of her!
His connection to the dream world almost severed, Alura bent down to touch the gap in Schala's stomach. No blood. A milky veil nearly engulfed Magus' vision as his consciousness reasserted itself. In the background, soft whispering sounds could be heard...the sound of rustling cloth, of an unleashed weapon, of the approach...
"Aren't you forgetting something?"
The sight cleared just long enough for Magus to see Jarl coming closer, scythe in hand.
Coming closer–to him.
"Wait!" came the dark wizard's cry. "What about..."
"...Schala!"
That double syllable name reverberated in the still darkness as a pebble to a pond. Consciousness crashing into him, the former Mystic leader sat up abruptly. He panted deeply, though he could scarcely believe it originated from his mental stress–how could his mind affect his physical? Yet the intensity made his heart hammer as if to burst from his ribs and sweat streaked his temples.
So that's how it's like to see her die.
He could never live like that.
But, if he should fail, the great Magus would have to.
In his confused state, the wizard forgot to employ his magic for sight. His hand flailed about to light a candle. He knocked over several books from the nightstand of which Magus paid no heed. At last, a tiny silver candle blazed with a golden glow. Feeble light cast around the room. In the corner, where Schala had lain, dead, was a pile of upturned books. A few feet away the scythe leaned against the blue-gray wall. Suffering from hallucinations was not uncommon for the sorcerer–he could easily have half-dreamt, half-imagined the whole gruesome episode of Schala's death.
Resorting to his barrier, the former prince quieted his breathing. He swept aside the deep navy hair and lay back down. Of course, a dream. Or a hallucination, maybe. Alura was dead. Schala was not dead. Jarl might be manipulator but hardly a murderer...
Besides, the cloak he'd stolen rested on...
...his...
..shoulders–No...
Magus bolted upright again, searching for the Cloak of Concealment. Gone. Not a trace. Leaving the bed, he again looked around. Not on his nightstand. Not on the messy floor. It should be on his person. It was until he'd fallen asleep. Until he'd dreamt...
Whether or not I've misplaced it or it is theft is not the issue. At this very moment Schala could be in danger. Snapping to a decision, Magus exercised some magical spells he hadn't in many long months. Among his arcane arsenal, an invisibility-float hybrid soon had him echoing a soft blue and off a few inches from the gray-black tiles.
As a prodigy, the wizard engaged in magical-merging. He'd combined several effect spells to produce a double-benefit enchantment. Flying-invisibility ranked among the elite of his favorite self-created spells. With the aid of his cloak, however, some time had past since last the sorcerer tested its viability. Of course, there existed no way for him to know it wasn't working until too late, until he'd been discovered. Dear Reaper, let it not fail me now.
Abandoning his small quarters, the wizard traversed the myriad hallways of the Zeal Palace. As it was late night, he encountered only a limited number of Enlightened roaming the antechambers. Two Enlightened sat at a silver-trimmed table whispering about the Ocean Palace. They did not notice his proximity, as the self-professed prophet virtually floated past. Indeed, the spell had worked.
He did not bother trying to steal some clothing. Only the Cloak of Concealment would hide his royal heritage, his possession of the Zealian magic. Magus swept down some marble steps and glided over gold-plated 'healing' floor designs. Without the cloak, the necromancer must keep the magic invested in his spell. Any drop in concentration might end the enchantment. He could keep it going. But for how long? Not forever, by no means...
Once Magus crossed the right wing of the palace, the sounds of footsteps made him curse. Normally, he couldn't care less about any Enlightened. If the spell worked against one, it should work against another. However, those voices belonged to no ordinary dreamer of Zeal. In his midst walked the Advisor and the Queen herself.
His breath halted, the sorcerer flattened to a wall.
"Dalton! Can you believe it?"
"What your esteemed Majesty–your amazing intellect or your stunning beauty?"
His mother seemed annoyed. "Yes, well, of course, you idiot." Her hands flourished with a shimmer of golds and reds and blues. "But I mean the completion of the Ocean Palace. A few more hours and we shall be immortal."
Magus winced. His stomach shrunk. Lavos was near.
"Yes! Yes! I can feel it! I can!"
So could the wizard, for he found himself being rubbed by a very enthusiastic cat. Magus swore again softly. If either his mother or her overly dressed lap dog should notice the cat 'rubbing air' they might opt to investigate. Sheer disaster. Kicking Alfador away did not work before and was not likely to work now. Make the best of it, Magus. Like you always do.
Much to Magus' dismay, the Queen walked closer to his form. Dalton stayed in the background observing the Zealian's highest authority with eager eyes. That made the dark wizard frown. The thought of his mother and the prissy made Magus violently ill. Yet the signs obviously told of a story the former prince wanted not told. He hated Dalton. And he hated his mother. But the two of them, together...
Now was hardly the time for getting ill, however.
"By tomorrow, I will summon Schala to activate the Mammon Machine," she was saying, cheeks flushed with the glow of imminent victory. "She'll–"
"Probably resist," Dalton pointed out, while flipping back his outrageous hair.
Queen Zeal smiled. It was of a natal evil. "Then you must bring her to me–by force, if necessary."
"And? Can I?"
"No. She is not to be harmed. You will bring her safely to me." Zeal's sharp eyes forestalled any protests. "She is my daughter."
How can someone so pure of heart be conceived of such wickedness? It seemed to defy logic. Magus realized a most shocking emotion coursing his veins–envy. Mother had always loved Schala far more than him. Schala was the wanted child; the cherished child. Janus had been the product of Zeal's illicit indiscretion with a passerby she took a fancy to. He'd not been wanted. A tolerated pariah at best.
Alfador meowed, seeming to sense his master's negative aura. In astonishment, both Queen and Advisor glanced over to the lone purple cat prowling the hall. Magus continued to hold his breath. Should they decide to cast a detect-magic spell the game was over for him. Alfador meowed once more and stretched against the wizard.
"It's–It's that stupid cat again! Shoo, you flea-bag." Alfador refused to be moved, not taking kindly to his mother's waving hands. The Queen snarled. "I don't know why I haven't gotten rid of the miserable thing long ago."
Seeing an opening for her favor, Dalton dove in. "I can always dump it into the waterfall. It's late. No one would know what happened." He stepped forward as if to do just that.
A predicament. Dalton appeared very likely to carry out his threat. A cat is a cat. Still, to an eight-year old who knew no friends, Alfador had been his only companionship. Janus would discover his precious pet dead. He'd be heartbroken. But the former prince couldn't exactly risk his cover for a mere feline. No matter the emotional attachment, Magus must keep quiet.
Mercifully for both wizard and his cat, Queen Zeal seemed too preoccupied to bother with such insignificance. "Later. We have more important things to discuss. If all goes well we can dump the boy in along with it."
Hate burning in his eyes, yet the sorcerer dared not retaliate.
As the rainbow Queen and her Advisor departed down the hall, the former prince could afford to relax his position. So much deception, such a fragile line of duplicity. His entire body had gone rigid. Now, to continue onto his mission. Uncover Jarl's intents and perhaps rescue his sister. His shadow did not fall upon the marble tiles of the indigo and crimson as that, too, remained hidden by the spell. His enchantment disguised all sight but not sound. Fortunately, the combined spell of levitate prevented any footstep noise. The Magus had been thorough.
Gliding over another set of marble stairs and navigating a large and beautiful multi-faceted antechamber, he arrived at the destined coordinates–Schala's room. The so-called prophet dared not enter visible, for should she catch him, Magus' identity might be unveiled. He was not ready for that. Neither was she. He needed time to soften the blow; to make it easier for his kind-hearted sister to accept the bloodstained Prince of Darkness.
Shock lightninged his systems, when the dark wizard detected the presence of Jarl. It required all of Magus' self-containment to not lose concentration and foul up the spell. Jarl? Here, at his sister's quarters so late at night? Jarl seemed to not even sense anything unusual, foregoing any arcane-inspecting. His knuckles rapped twice upon the door.
Schala appeared, radiant as ever, dressed only in a rose-colored nightrobe. Her sleep-squinted eyes expanded at seeing the violet-robed diviner there. She whispered, "Prophet? Magus?"
The real Magus flinched. Like every cruel slap his mother gave him, the sorcerer realized the height of Jarl's deception. That bastard! The Cloak! He stole it! He is parading around as me in my own clothing. The Idiot. I'll roast him alive for the damn audacity!
Then the door shut.